


Thirty-four Hours Later

by MageofHeart



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Old Friends, Snowed In, childhood crushes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MageofHeart/pseuds/MageofHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tempted by hot chocolate and a chance to get out of the cold, Karkat Vantas finds himself in Dave Strider's house for the first time in four years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty-four Hours Later

**Author's Note:**

> Awful, awful, awful summary, I know. And I also know I have two fics to finish and shouldn't be starting a new one....but I can't help it.  
> Trying out a different style again and it's kinda erratic but hopefully still readable???  
> This will be a very short fic. I'm thinking maybe three-ish chapters? If I stay committed. Which I should, since I already started on the second part.  
> Anyway...I hope you guys like it and questions and comments are, as always, appreciated!

If all your friends hadn't gotten drunk, you wouldn't have had to walk home in the bitter cold, your only means of warmth a hoodie and a pair of fingerless gloves. If they hadn't gotten drunk, you'd be home by now, snuggled into your bed and nearly asleep. But, as it were, they had gotten drunk, all of them passed out of Feferi Peixes floor. You weren't about that staying over life, especially if a party had ensued that same night. 

It was late, two am going on three, the only light from the street lamps above you, illuminating your path in the frigid night. Your head was tilted down, because of course you just happened to be walking against the wind. Your sneakers are rubbing blisters into your heels, too, adding to the the perfect touch to this scene. 

Maybe staying over should be a life you consider for next time. 

Hell, maybe drinking until you puke and pass out should be a life you consider for next time. 

Ha. Karkat Vantas drinking alcohol. 

You try to picture it. You: a beer in your hand and a fancy martini in the other, drinking sips from each as loud party music blares from Feferi's surround sounds speakers. You: leaning over Feferi's toliet in Feferi's dirt-less bathroom, vomiting violently as the beer-martini mixture leaves your stomach for a new home (the sounds in the background: the same party music with the addition of a cackling Terezi, amused by your puke noises). Yeah, that isn't the life for you. You wonder how on each it's the life for them. 

God, it's fucking cold. You should've stopped by the gas station and gotten that hot chocolate. But no, you're a stupid moron who didn't want the five minutes it would take you to get said warm beverage to be tacked on to your arrival time. You're a stupid moron who wanted to get home quickly. Well guess what, Karkat Vantas? Now your fingers are red and ice cold, there's wind in you face, your feet are probably bleeding by this point, and you don't have the happiness that a scolding hot drink in a Styrofoam cup would provide. And guess what else, Karkat? You're not home. Good planning ahead there, buddy. Way to go. 

Why'd you even go to that party in the first place? You hate people. And people hate you. Besides Terezi and maybe two other people. You're not a very likable guy. Actually, you're the least likable guy in town, probably. 

"Oh, shut up," you tell your thoughts. You're almost home, you reason. Three blocks, and the winds starting to calm down. 

God damn it. 

Three blocks, and the wind picked back up. With so much force it made you stumble. 

This is the point where you cry out in anger. And also pain because ow, icy air in your wide open eyes. 

It's a very loud cry, because you're a very loud guy. You can't help it. You feel very strong emotions and they show themselves in very loud ways. So what? 

This very loud cry, fueled by very strong emotions, just so happened to capture someone's attention, however. 

(How very stereotypical, you think at a much later, warmer date.) 

"Are you always this stupid, or has the winter numbed your brain?" The voice is coming from the up direction, and your hesitant to raise your head to see who it is. You should just keep walking, and ignore the rude voice. Except you've already stopped walking. And curiosity is getting the better of you, anyway. 

You look up. 

All you see is blonde hair and a red collar, but you know who it is. He doesn't live far from you, after all. 

"Hey, kitten," Dave Strider calls down to you from the safety of this warm, second story bedroom. You want to break his nose. 

You're so overcome by the urge to break his nose that you don't respond. 

"You're going to get frostbite," he tells you. 

"Oh, bite me," you tell him. 

"Not into that kinky shit," he responds. 

"Like I'd even come on to you," you respond to his response. 

You hate him. A lot. 

But this simple back and forth reminds you much earlier, warmer date, and the hate dims for only a moment. Who knows how long it's been since you've said more than two words to Dave Strider. 

(You know. Seventh grade, March 17th.) 

"Where are you going on such a cold, lonely night?" His tone is dramatic, and you can almost here the laugh in the undertone of his words. 

"Where do you think I'm going?" Because duh. Which direction are you walking in? The direction of your house, that's what. Stupid boy. 

He disappears from the window. Yeah, you think. Fuck that guy. You wasted so much time exchanging barely any words to him. You could've been home by now. 

Should've gotten that hot chocolate. Wouldn't have made much of a difference, would it? _You're_ the stupid boy. 

You start to walk against the wind again. One foot in front of the other, Karkat. That song from _Santa Clause is Coming to Town_ starts playing in your head. Great, now that annoying yet somehow catchy tune is going to be stuck in your head all night. 

"Dude." 

Again you top, looking back towards Dave's house. He's standing on his porch, barefoot and in his boxers, arms crossed over his chest. "What are you doing?" 

Really, you could ask him the same question. It is COLD outside and his feet must feel like they'll never be warm again. What is _he_ doing? You're walking home. "I'm walking home." It comes out like a question. 

"Well stop." He's rocking on his feet now. Yeah, that's what you thought. Bet he wishes he'd slipped some shoes on. Ha. "Come inside and get warm. You're going to get sick." 

He was inviting you in? Really? Haha, no thank you. That was the last thing you wanted to do. Fuck Dave Strider. Fuck his house, too. You just wanted to get home and defrost. Besides, who even knew how long it had been since you had been inside Dave's house, anyway? 

(Seventh grade, March 17th.) 

"No thanks." 

"Don't be an idiot, Karkat. It's fucking freezing out here. Why would you even walk from Feferi's house to your's, anyway? It's a forty minute walk." True. It was proving to be a very long walk and a very bad idea. 

But wait...

"How you even know I was at Feferi's?" Valid point. "You fucking...stalker." 

Good one, Karkat. 

Thanks, Karkat. 

"Vriska told me." 

Vriska Serket. The reason Terezi was so adamant about attending Feferi's party in the first place. "I'm going to fight her," she told you at school that day. "I'm going to knock her fucking teeth in." 

"Just don't break your glasses," you had told her. That would've been the third pair since October to go. But that had been why you ended up at the party with Terezi. To "watch her glasses" and to also "get the action on camera". But it had never happened. You knew it wouldn't. Like every time Terezi wanted to knock Vriska's fucking teeth in, they both had just ended up wasted and slurring insults at each other. 

"Look, Karkat," Dave says now. "Use your brain for once and come in." You can see his teeth chattering. Good. 

"I'd rather choke." 

You hear Dave sigh. "We have hot chocolate." 

You're sold. 

\--- 

Dave makes his hot chocolate by putting a mug full of water in the microwave for three minutes and then dumping the packet into the decently hot water. This is not okay with you, who had previously been freezing. So although your toes are numb and it hurts to walk as they slowly warm up, you make your own hot chocolate. You open the cabinet where the pots and pans are kept, and discover...not what you were looking for. 

Behind you, you hear another cabinet open, and when you turn, Dave is smirking at you, holding out a small pan. You want to break his nose. 

"You moved them," you say, as if he didn't know that. 

You take the pan and put water in it, then set it on the stove top. Dave hoists himself onto the counter. You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. Now what? 

You're staring at Dave, but Dave is staring at his phone. You don't want it to look like you were waiting for him to talk to you (you were. Where's that apology?), so you move your gaze to the floor, and kinda hug yourself for moral support. Much better. Less pathetic by a long shot. 

Time passes slowly. You can hear the kitchen clock tick. You glance at your not boiling water. Occasionally Dave laughs. Occasionally you glance at Dave, but only when he occasionally laughs. You feel like he's laughing at you, but his eyes never leave his phone screen. How obnoxious. 

Finally, the water boils, and you make your hot chocolate the way _you_ like it. When that's over and done with, Dave motions for you to come upstairs, to his room, slipping his phone into the waistband of his boxers. You follow him, careful with your mug of chocolaty goodness on the stairs. 

Dave makes you a pallet on his floor and turns on music. You both drink your drinks in silence, and when you finish, he turns the lights off and you both lay down. It's late, after all. Three am, going on four. 

You lay stiff, hands folded together on your stomach as you stare at the ceiling. The glow in the dark stars are absent. Maybe that was a childish thing, but the lack of stars makes your chest ache. Just like the moving of the pans. You didn't even know. 

It's both a relief and another ache when Dave's voice breaks through your thought barrier. "It's been a long time since we've done something like this." 

Yes. It has. 

But if you're recalling correctly (and you are), when you were still about that staying over life and stayed the night at Dave's house, he wasn't stuck in his phone. If you're recalling correctly, the two of you talked. Laughed. Argued. You'd physically fight and you would always end up face down on the ground, arm twisted behind you and near tears when Dave would let go, laugh, help you up. 

"Yeah," you answer. 

"Like... three years." 

Four, but you don't correct him. 

You don't even answer him, and a few more minutes pass before you hear rustles from the bed. 

"Karkat?" 

"Hmm?" 

Quiet, again. You figure he just isn't going to answer. Whatever. Fuck that guy. You're leaving as soon as possible. At six. You'll just stare at the ceiling for a few hours and leave when the sun is up and jog to your house. Good plan. You're so uncomfortable right now. This is the worst possible situation. 

You're actually starting to drift asleep, though, when Dave speaks again. "I'm sorry." 

Your head snaps towards his direction, and even though it's pitch black in the room you know you're both looking at each other. It's the two words that you've been wanting to hear for four years worth of awkwardly catching each other's eyes in the hallways at school. Four years worth of sometimes sharing classes and listening him laugh with his "popular" friends Four years worth of not talking, not even to ask to borrow a pencil. 

And you know this doesn't change anything, that saying sorry doesn't mean you're going to be chummy with each other, doesn't mean suddenly staying over is a life you're going to get back in sync with. It doesn't mean you'll stop and talk in the hallways and it doesn't mean you'll be laughing in class with him and Vriska Serket. 

It just means he's sorry. And you accept that he's sorry, just like you accept that nothing will change. 

"It's okay," you say. But it's a lie. He knows it as well as you do. It's not okay. 

You should say sorry, too, but you're too prideful and don't want to admit you were out of line as well. Besides, your voice will crack if you use it again. So you turn onto your side, facing away from Dave, and shut your eyes. 

The second to last thought you have before falling asleep is "being ex best friends with one of the most liked kids in school is hard. 

And the last thought you have is that annoyingly catchy song from _Santa Clause is Coming to Town_ looping in your brain. 

Outside, it starts to snow. 


End file.
